


You're in my Arms Just like the Wind

by Opium_du_Peuple



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Barricade Day, Canon Era, Feelings, M/M, in which Montparnasse is a human being, with ya know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6447637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opium_du_Peuple/pseuds/Opium_du_Peuple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You would leave without saying goodbye?”</p><p>Montparnasse only hears about the revolt lead by the ABC when the barricade already has strong foundations. Desperate, he runs Rue de la Chanvrerie, hoping to change Jehan's mind and save him from the slaughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're in my Arms Just like the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> This little thing was originally a prompt I received on tumblr as "Jehan finds Montparnasse just before the barricades are built, to say goodbye; Montparnasse tries to keep him from going.", but I tweaked it a little bit because I love wirting from Montparnasse's POV!  
> Anyway, enjoy your time and feel free to blame me for the angst! :3

Nothing like public funerals to distract the minds and loosen the pockets. While the rich gathered at their windows and the poor gathered in the street, the ruffians, deliquents and criminals of all sorts could go around in their hushed hour of glory. Patron Minette weren’t ones to miss such an opportunity, even though they usually operated under the cover of the night. They were going merrily from house to house, finding empty lodgings and full drawers, talking what they could and hiding the rest. A good day, Montparnasse thought. Generals should die more often.

They were edging their way into a narrow alleyway when they heard gunshots. Screams. Shouts. Chanting. Montparnasse furrowed his brow, making the whole troop stop. This wasn’t the lamenting cries of a grieving crowd. It was the angry rumble of a furious mob.

“Claquesous?” Montparnasse gave the man a questioning look.

If someone ought to know anything about a sudden popular upheaval, it was Claquesous. Something had awakened in Montparnasse’s stomach, twisting his insides. A literal gut feeling that was making him nauseous. Claquesous’ perplex expression did nothing to alleviate the fear rushing to his brain.

They quickly got out of the alleyway, Montparnasse leading the party with hurried steps. He didn’t know where to go, but he needed to find Jehan as quickly as possible. They couldn’t have gone through with it, could they? Nobody could be that stupid! 

Montparnasse felt helpless. There was no crowd to follow, no Ariadne’s thread to guide them to the source of the mayhem. The sound of hooves and shouts was reverberating against every surface, making it impossible to locate its origin. Montparnasse sought a familiar face among the passers-by, someone who would know. Suddenly, a familiar dash of dark hair darted in front his eyes, quickly threading its way between Gueulemer and Babet’s legs. Gavoche’s friend! Shit, what was his name already? Something like “Juillet” or “Bleut”. No.

“Navet!” he shouted in the gamin’s direction.

The lad turned around, looking a lot like he regretted having stopped in the first place. The sight of Gueulemer often left people with the same expression. Patron Minette soon caught up with him, the kid nailed to the cobbled under the men’s scrutiny. Montparnasse lowered himself to his level, dropping a knee on the ground. He tried not to cringe at the thought of the grime soiled ground touching his freshly cleaned breeches.

“What is all the fuss? What happened?” he asked, trying not to scare the gamin off, though, if he was cut from the same cloth as Gavroche, it would surely be a feat.

“Not sure I’m allowed to say, M'sieur,” Navet stalled, twisting his fingers.

Even though fear befuddled his mind, Montparnasse would never resort to strike a child. Life itself was the rod street urchins bent under. Instead, he put his hand on the tyke’s shoulder.

“Navet. Please.”

It seemed to be enough persuasion, because Navet began to stamp gently, ready to resume his infernal race.

“Rue d'la Chanvrerie, M'sieur. Everything’s happenin’ Rue d'la Chanvrerie.”

No sooner had he spilt the beans that he bolted for the very street he had just mentioned, Montparnasse and the rest of Patron Minette on his heels. They reached the place quickly, Montparnasse’s feet flying over the cobbles. What if Jehan got shot? What if it was already too late? They hid in a dark alley, watching the scene, unseen. A large group of men was building a barricade, throwing tables over chairs, bed frames, wardrobes… Montparnasse could recognise some of them, but none of them was his heart’s desire. It took a good minute before he finally recognised the familiar outline of Jean Prouvaire.

Instinctively, Montparnasse draw a movement forward, ready to rush to Jehan’s side, but a strong fist closed on the back of his vest, holding him back. Gueulemer was restraining him tightly.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” he groaned, struggling against the firm grip. “Let go of me!”

“It’s none of our business,” Gueulemer argued coldly.

“The National Guard will be here any minute. It’s going to rain lead soon!” Babet agreed.

With one swift hand, Montparnasse undid the buttons of his vest, setting himself free. Slipping effortlessly off the garment, he took his heels towards the barricade. He navigated between several men, more unknown faces than the other way around, but it didn’t matter, none of them did.

“Jehan!” he called.

He had lost him in an ocean of waistcoats and furniture. Orders were thrown from every corner, so much so that Montparnasse didn’t hear any answer. If answer there had been. He didn’t know if the throbbing piercing his ears was that of his own heart or the sound of the death knell awaiting them all. They were building their own coffins out of wood.

“What are you doing here?” Jehan’s voice arose behind him.

Montparnasse turned around. If he couldn’t help his own smile, Jehan’s face was torn between worry and urgency. There was a carbine hung over his shoulder by a leather strap and, already, his hair had decided to make a mess of his braid. Jehan with a gun. The idea was preposterous. Jehan hadn’t killed anyone in his life! He sometimes didn’t even have the heart to pluck out the prettiest flowers! Far from greeting him warmly, Jehan grabbed Montparnasse’s arm, leading him away from the barricade. His grip was unexpectedly vigorous, probably fed by adrenaline.

“You can’t be here! It’s dangerous!” Jehan scolded in a hurried whisper.

“Dangerous! Exactly!” Montparnasse exclaimed. “You can’t be here either! What are you thinking?”

“Freedom! That’s what! Justice!”

He preached so fervently than Montparnasse’s heart, ladden with sin, ached in return. He wouldn’t lose him for an idea! He wouldn’t lose him to bullets! Jean Prouvaire had to die of old age as a renouned poet or an academic! Hell, both! This was how it was supposed to be! Montparnasse loosened his arm free and took his lover’s hand, linking their fingers together before drawing them to his lips.

“There is still time to walk away. You don’t have to join the lambs going to the slaughter. You don’t have to do this! Jehan, please.”

Jehan seemed to soften at these words, settling his free hand on Montparnasse’s cheek, gently stroking his cheekbone with his thumb.

“Can’t you see?” he whispered, almost amorously. “We’re doing this for all of us. For you. For me. France will be better for it.”

France doesn’t care, Montparnasse thought. He didn’t care about France either. He only cared about Jehan. He cradled the poor excuse of a soldier’s face with his hands, feeling the warmth and the delicacy of his skin, trying not to think about how long they still had. Jehan wouldn’t leave with him. No matter how hard he’d try, Montparnasse would never manage to drag him away from his wooden pyre. He might succeed in body, but the man’s spirit was tied to this place. Jehan would hate him for it. Either way, Montparnasse would hate himself. He looked so young. He was too young.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You would have tied me up to my own bed!” Jehan chuckled, though his heart clearly wasn’t in it.

He wasn’t wrong. Had he known sooner, Montparnasse would have done everything in his power to stop him. He didn’t know they were serious. They were idealists talking around a table. They weren’t soldiers. They might as well throw flowers to the National Guard, they were a handful against a swarm.

“You would leave without saying goodbye?” Montparnasse asked, his voice breaking at the thought.

Jehan pulled him closer, his eyes seeking their mirrors.

“This isn’t an ending, chaton. It’s a beginning. The dawn of a new era. Montparnasse, look at me.”

Montparnasse complied relunctantly. He could barely look at this deadman walking he called “Love”. Jehan was in his arms just like the wind, ready to be blown away by bullets and smoke. His hands had started shaking. If Jehan was scared, he didn’t show anything. He pressed himself even more against Montparnasse, providing much needed warmth. The criminal wanted to engulf it all, protect it at all cost.

“We will go to London, eh?” Jehan coaxed him. “Just like we talked about. And then, who knows? India? India sounds good, doesn’t it?”

Montparnasse nodded for the sake of the lie and for Jehan’s. He had no idea whether his lover was sincere or not, but he played along anyway. There had been surprisingly few lies between them so far. It was always time to break a habit.

“Jehan!” someone called from the barricade.

They both jumped and grew apart. The soldier of liberty looked back at his brothers in arms and squeezed the fingers he was holding.

“I must go.”

“Mon amour, please, I’m begging you—”

“I have to. I’ll come back to you soon.”

“Please, take this.”

Montparnasse took his flask out of his pocket, the silver shining under the sun. He didn’t even remember how he had come by it, if it had cost a life or actual money. He unbuttoned Jehan’s waistcoat and slipped it in the breast pocket, just above his heart of gold.

“Here, it’ll protect you and warm you up,” he said feebly, his fingers lingering on the beating heart. How many heartbeats did he have left?

Jehan buttoned up his waistcoat and pressed Montparnasse’s hand on last time.

“Thank you. And a good day to you, Monsieur Montparnasse.”

“I wish you the same, mon cher Jean Prouvaire.”

Montparnasse waited for Jehan to have turned around to let his knees shake. His whole body was collapsing on itself. Soon there was nothing but a back and a carbine, the weapon taunting him. He was about to retreat back to the dark alley when Jehan’s march to the barricade stopped. For a fleeting second, Montparnasse thought he had changed his mind, that he could still make him happy, keep him safe. What a fleeting thing hope is, indeed. Jehan turned back towards him, and Montparnasse barely had the time to notice the tears rolling down his cheeks that the man he loved rushed into his arms. In the desperate attempt to merge themselves together, they both held the other tight.

“I’m so scared,” Jehan broke, his head nested in Montparnasse’s neck.

Montparnasse wished he was as heartless as he was rumoured to be. He wished he didn’t have this screaming gash tearing his body and mind apart. Taking in a sharp breath, he wiped off his tears before lifting Jehan’s head and looking at him in the eyes.

“Of course, you’re scared. It means you’re alive. But you’re also brave, you hear me? You’re Jean Prouvaire, and Jehan Prouvaire can be scared, but he never hides. He fights and he survives. You’re going to live through this, alright?”

He laid a kiss on the soon to be martyr’s forehead, trying to control the tremors raging up to his lips. His words were void, dust scattered in the wind, but they were the balm they both needed.

“I love you,” Jehan whispered, stammering on the words through the sobs.

“I love you.”

Their kiss wasn’t the best they had ever shared. It was salty of tears and desperate, a farewell to all the other kisses they had had before. They finally let go with a nod and went their separate ways. Montparnasse found Babet, Claquesous and Gueulemer huddled by the angle between the alley and Rue de la Chanvrerie. None of them said a word.

“Claquesous,” the leader rasped, his voice cold and hash. “Go to the barricade. Keep an eye on him.”

Claquesous did not dare to object.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for enduring pain with me! Pain wise, you can always find me at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) for more angst, but I promise some fluff hidden here and there :')  
> I'd love to hear your thoughts, so don't hesitate to comment or talk to me, it make my day and keeps your local writer happy and satisfied! ♥


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